


Motormouth

by pavonine



Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavonine/pseuds/pavonine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade is cursed so he can never stop talking, and Nate has to finally learn how to listen. The moral of this story, of course, is be careful what you wish for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motormouth

It began like any other Tuesday.

It started like most days on Providence, with breakfast. Nate had dined with the artists redecorating the community theater, then enjoyed lunch with several inquisitive European diplomats. He'd hoped to make it to a quiet dinner with his senior staff, but Wade had dropped in around four in the afternoon, and Nate should've known then and there to just call it a day.

He was in a meeting with the prime minister of Norway, so he had asked Irene to babysit. It was twenty minutes before she stalked into Nate's airy office, her arms held tightly to her sides.

She slammed her palms flat on Nate's desk, and leaned in until they were nose-to-nose. "I am this close," she said, " _this_ close to putting in my two weeks' notice." Her hair was falling out of her lacquered bun, and her cheeks were furiously red.

Nate's brow furrowed. "Wade?"

She nodded stiffly. "Deal with him," she said, " _please_ ," then she straightened up and turned to the somewhat ruffled prime minister. "Excuse me," she said, giving him a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach her eyes; then she left without another word.

Nate stared after her, his mind whirling. Wade was annoying, certainly, but he usually behaved himself when he was on Providence and knew Nate was around. And Irene was a professional's professional, with experience handling Wade whenever Nate needed a hand. This, then, had to be something unusual.

Nate frowned.

The Norwegian prime minister quietly excused himself.

\--

He found Wade in a corner with the Norwegian prime minister's personal assistant, whispering something in her ear that made her blush a faint pink. On the surface, nothing seemed wrong, but Nate remembered the total frustration on Irene's face and decided to dig a little deeper.

He politely cleared his throat.

The transition was flawless. "—and hell _o_ , Nate!" Wade said, spinning smoothly from the assistant to face Nate, a broad grin tucked under the red mask. "Irene give you my message? That's Nate," he told the assistant, "he's kinda like my costar—"

"If by message," Nate said, talking over him, "you mean Irene almost threatening to quit, then yes."

"—everyone knows who really drives these sales," Wade finished, and turned back to Nate. He'd never once taken a decent breath in between sentences, and kept up the lively stream of chatter with great enthusiasm. "Yeah, that really wasn't what I asked her to—listen, Nate, can we talk?"

Nate raised an eyebrow.

"It's _really_ important, man," Wade continued breathlessly, "and I swear I have a good explanation, but it's sorta private stuff, not like private-private but—"

"We can't talk out here?"

Wade winced. "We _can_ , but I'd rather _not_ ," he said. His boots dug into the lobby's thick carpet. "It's _reeeeeally_ important."

"You interrupted my meeting with the Norwegian prime minister. My _really important_ meeting. That I told you about in advance." Wade had promised to steer clear, but that had been three weeks ago, and apart from the occasional bodyslide, Nate hadn't really seen him since. Busy lives and all.

At any rate, Wade looked appropriately guilty. "Swear it's for a good reason," he said. "Er. Big reason, whether it's good is anyone's—look, it's not like a _separation anxiety_ thing, Nate, come on. Little credit here. I really need your help," he added, and the eyes of his mask grew so big and wide that even Nate had trouble keeping his resolve from melting.

His mouth stiffened. He was going to regret this. "You have ten minutes," he said.

"All I'll need," Wade said happily, and bounded past Nate, heading for his office. "Ten minutes is more than I'll need, probably—I mean I'm a little insulted that's all you can spare for your bestest best friend, but—"

"Wade."

"Going, going, come on," Wade said, and disappeared into Nate's office.

The silence stood out after he left, and Nate took a moment to appreciate it before following Wade inside.

\--

It was six minutes later, and Nate had developed a splitting headache.

"—and I swear, I didn't say or do anything to this girl," Wade went on. He was pacing Nate's office like a demented carousel, and like a demented carousel he went on and on forever, never once stopping between one sentence and the next.

Which, as it turned out, was the problem in a nutshell.

"I didn't," Wade insisted. "Well."

Nate didn't ask "well, what." Wade was going to tell him anyway, he didn't quite see the point.

"I didn't _really_ , I maybe shot my mouth off a coupla times? Not like in a bad way, just, I ended up rambling—but she listened to me, and we had kind of a conversation, then she leaves and I leave and I haven't shut up since," Wade finished. He rocked back on his heels, hands behind his back like a guilty kid. "So, yeah. My OFF button's broken and I can't stop talking. It's actually kind of a problem."

Nate rubbed his temples with the points of his fingers. "What did you talk about?" he asked.

"What? Oh," Wade said, and hummed. "I dunno. Stuff."

"Stuff."

"Stuffy stuff, Nate, s'not the point. I told her things. She told me things. We spilled our hearts to each other, is that what you wanna hear?"

Nate sighed. "This lady—did she have a name?"

"Er."

"Any defining physical characteristics? Are you sure she even exists?"

"You're mad at me," Wade said.

"I'm not mad."

"I didn't even _do_ anything—"

"You shot your mouth off?"

Wade squirmed. "Uh," he said, "maybe? Look, Nate, how important is it that we go over every detail of what I said and who I was with and how short my skirt was and how much I'd had to drink, can we focus on just fixing me? There has to be a spell."

Nate stared at him. "A spell."

"You know, to un-curse me? Like a reversal spell, or a countercurse, there's always something." Grinning brightly, he clapped his hands together. "I'm sure we can whip one up real quick, can't we Nate?"

"We don't even know if you've been cursed."

" _Nate_ ," Wade said, and gave him a pointed look. "I know I don't have green skin or a lightning-shaped scar or nothin', but I know a curse when I see one, and I'm as bewitched as Elizabeth Montgomery." His voice faltered, and the eyes of his mask grew round and pleading. "Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi," he said. "You're my only hope."

Nate's desk was strong and sturdy, and he was this close to bashing his head against it until it broke, or Wade finally shut up. Personally, he wasn't betting on the latter.

But Wade had a point. Not many people were willing to lend a hand to a psychotic mercenary in need. And... it was Wade, who lived permanently in Nate's blind spot; Wade who tugged Nate's heartstrings like a master puppeteer. Wade who had come specifically to him for help. And Wade who, for once, didn't seem to be clearly in the wrong, and Nate wouldn't be much of a friend if he turned Wade away.

He felt prematurely exhausted. "Maybe," he said slowly, "we can find the woman you spoke with, and interrogate her before we try anything else."

"Interrogate like interrogate or—" Wade made a neck-slicing gesture.

"She had to have had a reason for doing this to you," Nate said.

"I guess," Wade said, shrugging. "I mean, forcing me to talk forever. Who'd want to do _that_?"

The thought made Nate's gut twist.

Later, he asked Irene to clear his schedule for the rest of the week.

\--

They backtracked that night, to the bar where Wade had said he'd met the woman. Oddly, he didn't seem too pleased, and tried pushing the possibility of a countercurse again, but Nate was convinced the idea was a good one—it was never a bad idea to retrace your steps, even if Wade was dragging his feet.

"She's not gonna _be_ here," Wade muttered, "I'm serious."

"What, exactly, did she look like?" Nate asked.

They were in a bar, though as far as bars went it was quite tidy and clean; trendy, even, with a friendly wait staff and Polaroids on the walls and a good selection of liquor. Wade voiced his opinion on all of it, in detail, and for a moment Nate considered ordering something much, much stronger than beer.

This was important, though. And anyway, Wade wasn't being annoying on purpose.

"She looked, I dunno," Wade was saying. "Like a woman."

"Well that narrows it down."

"She had… hair, and eyes, and—" Wade cupped his chest significantly. "Lady parts. I actually wasn't paying attention."

"You weren't." Nate arched an eyebrow, and thumbed open his bottle.

Wade scowled. "No," he said shortly, then shook his head and stared thoughtfully into his beer. "We were honestly just talkin'."

"So you don't have any idea of what she looks like," Nate stated. "At all."

Wade shrugged, an easy roll of shoulders. "Pretty," he said automatically. "Like… Milla Jovovich—oh, you don't know who she is. Uh. Dark brown hair, really shiny. Light green eyes. She was in this low-cut top—I wasn't _trying_ to stare," he said, defensive glare cutting over to Nate. "Well, not on _purpose._ "

Nate hid his smirk behind his beer bottle.

"No, she was—she was classy," Wade said. His voice had dropped into worn-down softness; into something that reflected on its lot in life and felt inordinately grateful. "She was nice. I liked her."

"What'd you two talk about?"

Wade teethed the rim of his bottle, and said, "A lot."

"Like?"

Wade shrugged. "Well, I had just come off an all-nighter for Hayden," he began. "Pay was shit but he was in kind of a bind, so I figure next time, well, he owes me one. I stopped in for a drink before I went back, and that's when I met her. She wasn't with anybody, so, I said hello and introduced myself."

"You're sure you weren't interested in more than just her company."

The white eyes of his mask narrowed. "I don't do bar scenes, Nate," he said quietly. "Believe me, I know how women… react. Ain't exactly what they picture when they think 'tall, dark, and handsome,' you know?" He huffed a small sigh, and his eyes cut over to Nate. "Not that I… anyway."

Nate blinked, brows furrowing, but Wade continued to talk.

"I said hello and I asked if anyone was sittin' next to her, 'cause it wasn't right, pretty girl sittin' at a bar all alone. Never knew what kinda guy would ask to sit next to her. Somethin' like that," Wade said, "it was pretty lame, but it made her laugh; made her face light up like Christmas in Vegas. I told her my name and I asked her what she was havin', and she said a Bloody Mary, so I ordered her another. Hair of the dog, I guess. Not that I blame her.

"I asked what a girl like her was doing in town, and she said nothin', just lookin' for a job. So I say, what do you do, and she says, odds and ends, here and there. She asks me the same, so Wade what are _you_ doing in town, and I tell her. I just got off a job." He frowned. "And I told her what I did."

Nate's brow creased sharply.

"Oh, nothin' _bad_ , don't gimme that look. Little light theft, relax." Wade snickered. "You really get your panties in a bunch over me, Priscilla. It's cute."

"You told her what you did?"

"Yeah," Wade said thoughtfully, "weird, right? I just… opened up to her. Just like that. She was patient, and she was there… and she listened. Didn't even judge. Not," he added, narrowing his eyes, "like you, may I add."

Nate tipped him his beer.

"Right. Anyway. That's interesting, she says, only she don't say it like she's bored, she really seems interested in all the gory details. You must live some life. And I tell her yeah, I'm livin' the American dream, what with the cancer and the healing factor and the whole thankless job. Some life indeed. But it's not _so_ awful, I tell her, 'cause at least I'm not alone. I have friends: an ex-secretary, a minion on loan from HYDRA, a so-called friend who'd just as easy stab me in the back, an' a best friend I never see anymore 'cause he's off playing Jesus metaphor for the rest of the world." Wade laughed softly. "You'll like this: I ended up goin' on about you."

Under his collar, Nate's neck heated. "Oh," he said. "Did you."

Wade nodded. "Well she asked," he said. "She kept askin' questions and I kept answerin', and then all of a sudden it was time to go, and I paid the tab and we went our separate ways. Then I realized I was still talkin' even though she wasn't there anymore, so I decided to stop by Providence and see if you were busy."

"Which I was."

"Well whose fault was that?"

Nate hummed. It still didn't make much sense. Wade had had plenty of conversations with plenty of people after plenty of assorted mercenary jobs, and he'd never been cursed as a result of it. And the way Wade explained it, he hadn't done anything wrong—unless he wasn't telling the truth, but Nate suspected he was. He knew Wade trusted him enough to tell him almost anything.

Nate sat and pondered things for a while. Wade sang "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" under his breath.  

After a while, Nate said, "What kinds of questions did she ask?"

"Questiony ones," Wade said dryly. "The kinds with question marks at the end of 'em."

"All right, what'd she ask about me?"

"Cut right to the chase, why don't you," Wade murmured in amusement. "Fine. She wanted to know if I was being literal with the whole 'BFF saves the world, news at eleven' line—don't blame her, it does sound pretty cool, and I said yeah, sometimes; he tries. Don't always work but he gives it a fair shot, and I couldn't really _say_ much to that because hey, at least you're makin' an effort. And, I dunno. That's commendable."

Nate said nothing. He had plenty of things he _wanted_ to say, but curiosity got the better of him and he let Wade continue.

"And she went all undergrad psych degree on me and was like, that must be terrible, always living in your friend's shadow, and I said no, not really, ain't exactly in his _shadow_ or nothin'. Can't really live up to you, big guy," Wade said, flashing him a grin; tapping Nate's arm with his fist.  

Nate didn't say anything to that either.

"So I'm like no, not in his shadow… kinda in his sun? Stupid, right," he said, allowing a dumb grin to cross his face. "Like you're some awesome, life-giving force I can't live without. She didn't laugh. She said, that's gotta be rough, and I said it would be if he even had the time of day for me."

"Wade, that's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Wade eyed him. "Last time you saw me on purpose was three weeks ago. I don't even get so much as a postcard these days."

Nate stared into his beer bottle,  wondering if there was a way he could disappear into it. "I've been… busy," he said lamely, and Wade scoffed; but that was all, nothing worse than a small, unimpressed 'tch.'

It stung; Nate had been braced for far worse. Had been ready to accept as much. Wade really had a point.

"Anyway," Wade said, steering the subject back on track. "Where was I—right, you. I bitched a little, I whined, I spilled my deepest, darkest secrets; 'Dear Abby, my husband's been staying late at the office, should I be worried he's having an affair.' Told her I—" And then Wade stopped himself.

It took a concerted amount of effort, but Wade managed to stop speaking for two seconds; his hand trembled around his beer and his mouth twitched, but he was perfectly silent for a few tense moments. Then, palpably relieved, he said, "And I told her I had to run. But it'd been a pleasure. She smiled, nodded, and I paid the tab. Then we left, and that's where the story begins."

Nate stared at Wade suspiciously. _Told her I_ —he'd said, and cut himself off forcefully. There was something he was avoiding, and given the nature of things, that should've been impossible.

It had to be something Wade was uncomfortable revealing, even to Nate. And that was a fairly short list in itself; Nate was privy to everything from Wade's past to Wade's past bowel movement, and he tried never to judge. And despite what he claimed, Wade _knew_ that.

Nate opened his mouth to ask about it when Wade's cell phone buzzed. He swallowed his disappointment; no matter how open Nate encouraged him to be, Wade had a right to privacy—moreso now that he was compelled to talk.

Still. Curiosity shifted inside him; curled back up and waited.

Wade finished sending a text and stood, stretching to pop his joints. The audible crack made Nate wince and Wade grin. "That was Weasel," he said. "He thinks he has a solution."

"For the curse?"

"No, world hunger," Wade said. "Yes, Nathan, the curse. Got somethin' he wants to try out."

"You told _Weasel?_ "

Wade blinked at him. "Well, yeah," he said, like it was obvious. "Dude's like the smartest guy I know, of course I told him. I called him like five minutes after I realized something was up. Figured he could help." He smirked, after a moment. "What, jealous I came out to him first?"

Nate could feel his ears turning pink. "Just… surprised, is all," he mumbled, gathering the remains of his pride. It shouldn't have mattered that Wade asked his friend for help before he came to Nate; the more people working on this, the better.

It sounded hollow even in his head.

Nate gestured to the bar. "So what about this?"

"What about it?"

Nate's brows furrowed in confusion. "She might turn up again," he said. "We can interview people, ask the bartender if he's seen her around."

"Dude," Wade said, cutting him off; giving the impression that behind the mask he was looking at Nate with a mix of sympathy and sad pity.

"I just think it's irresponsible—"

"Look, if you're so hot on finding this chick, _you_ stay," Wade said. "But I left my teleport belt at home, so I'm bodysliding, and you'll have to find your way back on your own. The bar closes at two. Your call."

Nate stared at Wade for a moment longer, torn between the urge to convince Wade to stay… and the sinking feeling that, maybe, it was a moot point.

Wade was shaking his head, muttering something under his breath. "C'mon, Nate," he then said, slipping an arm around Nate's elbow, hauling him off the cracked leather stool and into the chilly nighttime air. "Girls like her are once in a lifetime anyway."

\--

"You've got to be kidding me," Hayden said.

Wade was in a much better mood than he had been before. Nate suspected it had to do with Hayden; the more of the story Wade revealed to him, the worse Hayden's expression looked, until his mouth drooped into a beaten frown and his slumped shoulders made him look like a large, miserable boulder. Wade had been immensely cheered.

For once, Nate decided not to interfere.

"I kid you not," Wade told him brightly. "I'm here, I'm cursed, deal with it."

"We're not dealing with anything," Hayden said shortly.

"Oh?" Wade was perched on top of Sandi's desk like a giant parrot, an incorrigible grin visible through the mask. "That's funny. 'Cause last I heard it, I was the only merc you had doin' any work 'round these parts."

"You're not," Hayden said tersely. "We have Taskmaster on retainer."

"Wow, Tasky, I'm impressed," Wade said, "you have him on _retainer._ Please, he's busier than a hackneyed simile." He leapt down from Sandi's desk with catlike grace and strode over to Hayden, until they were practically nose-to-nose. "You need me, Hayden, and you know it."

Hayden scowled.

"There's no shame in admitting it," Wade said. "Come on, Hayden, tell me how much you love me."

Hayden scowled harder, and shook his enormous head.

"Haydennnn—"

"I don't have a choice in this, do I."

Wade grinned at him.

"Fine." Hayden blew out a breath. "I suppose we can try—"

"Weasel!" Wade said, brushing past Hayden and startling Weasel, who had just emerged from a back room, reviewing a long sheet of dot matrix paper and not quite ready for Wade to bound over to him like a peppy, eager retriever. "Ol' buddy, ol' pal!"

Weasel blinked. "You got here fast," he said.

"Nate bodyslid me." Wade pointed happily to Nate. "You said you found something."

"Er," Weasel said, and shuffled through the paper until he landed on a relevant page. "Something."

"Something good?"

"Something you want to share with the rest of the class," Hayden cut in, giving Weasel a meaningful stare.

Weasel shrugged. "It's not much," he said. "Curses of this magnitude can only be broken naturally, or lifted by the caster themselves."

"Broken naturally?" Nate asked.

Weasel nodded. "All curses can be lifted if you know how. Usually by doing what the curse wants, or using a countercurse, but we don't know the aims of this spell and a countercurse won't work on something this, er, complicated."

Wade's shoulders slumped."So no countercurse?"

"Sorry, Wade," Weasel said. "No countercurse. Which leaves us with option B." And he brandished the scroll of paper at Wade.

Wade blinked at it. "We… program?"

"It's a locator spell, dumbass, not code," Weasel said. "We trace the spell's caster and _make_ them lift it."

Wade's grin, which had faltered during Weasel's spiel, reappeared ten times brighter than before. "Awwright!" he crowed, "Weasel, look at you, channeling your inner Willow! I knew you'd come through for me, buddy." He enveloped Weasel in a bone-crushing hug, the scroll of paper fluttering around them like a homecoming sash.

"Yes—welcome—Wade, my ribs," Weasel choked out; Wade let go, but continued to natter like an excited five-year-old. "Yes, well, that said, it might not—work."

If Wade could have stopped talking, he would have. Since he couldn't, it was like watching a car slam into a brick wall without stopping, pushing through bricks and dust while the broken windshield scattered all over the dashboard. "What do you mean, 'might not work'?" Wade said. "You just said—"

"I know what I said, I just—it might not _do_ anything," Weasel said. "It's not a guarantee."

"Explain?"

Weasel sighed. "We might not be able to trace her," he said simply.

"Why not?"

"Happens sometimes," Weasel said with a shrug.

"Happens sometimes _why_?" Wade said. His tone had taken a sharp accusatory turn, and his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"I don't know," Weasel said, and not for the first time Nate admired the man's patience with Wade. "Cloaking spell, non-human magic user, lots of reasons. It isn't an exact science, and I'm not exactly Wanda Maximoff." He frowned, rubbing at his sides. "It'll take a day to process, so we'll know for sure tomorrow, but—don't get your hopes up, all right? We'll try our best, but that's all we can do right now."

Wade was still talking. Wade hadn't stopped talking, which was expected, but his voice had quieted to such a degree that Nate couldn't hear more than a blended mumble. But whatever he was saying, couldn't have been too pleasant; Wade's shoulders were tight and his mouth had thinned, a grim slash pinching the mask.

Scanning the trailing scroll of paper, Weasel shook his head. "I'm gonna go… get this set up, then," he muttered. "Hayden, I could use your help."

Hayden glanced significantly from Wade, who was still talking to himself, to Nate, who had his arms crossed and hadn't said a word. Apprehension was written in the lines of Hayden's face—a feeling Nate found himself sorely agreeing with. "Sure," Hayden said, finally looking away.

They left. Then Nate and Wade were alone.

Nate decided to approach him carefully. Wade was still murmuring, mostly unintelligible, but his tone had taken a turn for the ponderous. "Wade?" Nate said.

"Sorry," Wade said suddenly. "Thinkin' out loud."

"About?"

"—not like I have a choice in the—oh. Uh." Wade frowned. "Curses… usually have a point, don't they?"

"I… suppose so."

"I mean yeah, sometimes, you get the," Wade waved his hands, "jilted ex hell-bent on revenge, but there's a point to that: revenge. Simple enough motive, but it's still a _motive_." He frowned. "So I'm just wonderin'. What's the point behind all this?"

"Behind your curse?"

Wade nodded. "I talk enough as is. Why would anyone wanna make me talk _more_?"

Nate opened his mouth, and realized he didn't have an answer.

Wade shook his head quickly. "Never mind, just curious." He scowled off in the direction Weasel and Hayden had disappeared. "Think it'll work?"

"The tracing spell?" Wade hummed. "Honestly, I don't know."

"So, no." Wade's tone was emotionless—purposely so, Nate guessed, and one good look at Wade confirmed it. "Wonderful."

Nate frowned. "I can stay," he said, and heard Wade mutter something about not needing a babysitter. "We can go to Taco Bell when you're finished."

Wade lit up like an old lightbulb, blinking slowly to life before coming to a burn, bright and steady. "Serious?"

"If you'd like," Nate said. He smiled. "My treat."

"See, I knew there was a reason we were friends," Wade told him, and his comment slid all the way down into Nate's stomach and settled there, nice and heavy and warm.

\--

"— _completely_ ridiculous, I swear I have never felt more humiliated in my entire life, and considering the humiliation conga line that is my life that's really sayin' something—you have lawyers, right Nate? Trigger-happy sharks who know their way around a lawsuit?"

Nate closed Wade's apartment door for him and set the bulging bag of food on the coffee table. "Yes, I do," Nate said, "why do you—"

" _Good._ Rustle up a posse, 'cause I am _suing their asses off_ ," Wade announced.

Nate sighed, long-suffering. To say the day had been exhausting would've been a sorry understatement. "Wade—"

" _No!_ No." Wade wagged a finger threateningly at Nate. "Don't you 'Wade' me, buster. Taco Bell is a _public space_ and I have the God-given right to eat there when I so choose."

"I don't think—"

"And who rents out a Taco Bell for a birthday party for old people?" Wade barreled on. "Do you _know_ what a run for the border does to your system at that age? I was in this mood once where all I bought for Al was Taco Bell, and the whole week you couldn't tell our bathroom from the inside of a septic tank. So I am suing them, for all they're worth. Now go. Get me lawyers." And Wade waved a hand at him, and flopped down heavily on the couch.

Nate sat down next to him. "Even after they compensated you?"

"Don't you dare guilt me into not doin' it," Wade growled. "Don't you even _start_. I have had a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day and you do not need to add your moral superiority to it."

He scowled, hard, and counted off on his fingers. "I get done doin' involuntary pro-bono work and meet a super-nice chick in a bar, only for her to curse me before she leaves without a trace," he said. "I spend the whole day under the influence of said curse, yakkin' my ass off about _nothing_ , which is way more annoying than you'd think when you can't exactly _stop_. I might be stuck like this who knows how long, I'm told. Maybe a day—but knowing me, my luck and my life, it's probably forever. And to cap it all off, the pickled maraschino cherry on top of my shit sundae, I get kicked out of Taco Bell because Shady Pines thinks it's a great place to celebrate the birth of a guy who can't even remember when to stop wiping. So don't start, Nate. I am seriously not in the mood."

Nate looked at him for a long, long moment, while Wade continued to grumble, head held in his hands. "If it means anything," he said, voice low, "I am sorry."

Wade snorted.

"I am," Nate went on. "I promise, we're going to do everything we can to fix this."

"Oh, look, you're promising something. Great. I feel so relieved."

Nate waited a moment, forcing himself to keep calm. "I know you're frustrated," he said, with effort, "but insulting me won't help."

"Dunno, made me feel loads better."

"We can go back to the bar again and ask if the bartender's seen her around—or maybe Weasel's spell will work and we can track her down—"

Wade growled, loudly, and flipped around with surprising agility to pin Nate to the couch and stare him dead in the eye.

"Listen, Prissy," he snarled, "and listen good, 'cause contrary to popular belief I don't much feel like repeating myself: this is _not_ a minor setback. This is _not_ a little problem. This is not failing the midterm and thinking you can make it up if you suck up to the professor and do all the extra-credit assignments and go to office hours and kiss your social life goodbye while you cram for the final. You know what this is? It's a _curse_. And a curse is a completely different dimension of suck. You don't put a band-aid on it. You don't poke it with a stick to see if it does something cool. You huddle under the desk with your hands over your head until it goes away or kills you. Whatever it gets to first."

His nose was mere inches away from Nate's. Warmth bled from his hand to Nate's shoulder, and it was impossible not to hear his heart pounding, racing in time with Nate's. But then he shook his head, and turned away; snatched up the remote with some viciousness and jabbed a random button.

The TV buzzed to life, and Nate's blood was still thrumming. Stunned, he said, "You don't think there's a way out of this."

"I told you, I'm not repeating myself."

"No, I meant." Nate stopped, shook his head. This was… not progress. This was sliding backwards on a neverending frictionless surface. "You think it'll either resolve itself on its own or kill you. That's it?"

"Hey, if you've got other options."

"Wade, there's—there _will be_ a way to lift it."

"Uh huh."

"There _will_ ," Nate insisted, and Wade rolled his head around to look at him. He tugged the mask off, and for the first time all day Nate got a good look into his eyes. Wade's mouth was running, a quiet stream of endless chatter, but his eyes were hard and lifeless, and Nate felt his chest constrict.

"Nate," Wade then said tiredly, after a disjointed rant about nothing; about Taco Bell and basic cable and how stupid some people could be. "Go home."

Nate shook his head.

"Don't argue with me on this one," Wade said, in a soft, weary voice. "Just go. Okay? I'm tired. We'll… talk to the bartender tomorrow if that's what you want."

"I want you to have what you want," Nate said.

"And I want you to go away."

"Except that," Nate said quietly, and he reached a hand out, and Wade jerked back like he'd been stung.

"Go _away_ ," Wade repeated, harsher, and he said it to himself: "Goawaygoaway _goaway_ …"

"I'm not leaving you," Nate told him, wrapping a hand around Wade's wrist—and he was ready for Wade to yank his hand away this time, and managed to hold fast. "I'm not going away. You came to me for help and I'm going to help you, and that's a promise. So no, I won't leave. Sorry," he added, somewhat sheepishly. "You're stuck with me, remember?"

Wade's gaze narrowed, sharp as knives. Slowly, he extracted his wrist from Nate's grasp—retracted his hand and cradled it close to his chest. "Get the hell out of my apartment," he said. His voice was like broken porcelain, jagged and brittle and cold.

Nate sat up straighter on the couch. "I told you," he said patiently—knowing full well how infuriating Wade would find it. "No."

Wade stood up, on his feet in one fluid move. Nate looked up at him. Wade breathed hard through his nostrils and glared.

"Three seconds," he said, teeth bared. "Or you're going through the window."

Nate blinked at him. "I can always come back upstairs," he said, and rose carefully. No sudden movements. Like approaching a junkyard dog, Nate thought—Wade was scared and Wade was _hurt_ and he was only trying to defend himself. "Why do you want me to leave?"

Wade stopped in the middle of a low-volume tirade about Nate's mother. "What?"

"Why do you want me to leave?"

"Because you're a nosy self-righteous prick and I hate you?" Wade said.

"I want to help," Nate said, looking Wade directly in the eye. "I really don't want to leave you alone."

"And why _not_?" Wade said, throwing out his arms. He'd hit exasperation, and he'd hit it hard. "Did it ever occur to you that I'm _good_ on my own?"

"You don't have to be," Nate said, "Wade, _please_ —"

"I wasn't kidding about the window thing, I swear I'll throw you out."

"I don't want to leave you alone," Nate repeated, and Wade flinched. "Wade, please, allow me this _one_ indulgence—"

" _No_."

"Then tell me why not!" Nate said. "Tell me. One _good_ reason why you want me to leave. Then I'll go."

"Nate, please, pleaseplease _please_ don't do this to me," Wade said suddenly. "Just—I know it's a lot to ask, I _do_ , but just trust me on this one and _go_."

A cold chill skittered down Nate's spine. Wade was begging. Wade _never_ begged. He frowned, considering Wade. 

Remembered Wade cutting himself short.

"Wade," he said slowly, "is there something you aren't telling me?"

And Wade froze.

"Because you can," Nate went on, hoping he sounded reassuring. "Wade, there is nothing in this world you can't tell me, I promise."

"You don't know that," Wade said.

"I can make a fairly good assumption," Nate said. He approached Wade, one step at a time, slow and measured until he was standing a few feet away. "Please? Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong!" Wade said sharply, stumbling backwards into the coffee table. "Nothing is wrong, _you_ are wrong, so just—just get out before—"

"Wade, you can _trust_ me," Nate said, taking another step forward. "Look at everything we've already _been_ through!"

"Not everything!" Wade said. "Not—there's _loads_ a' stuff you missed, you don't know the half of it—you don't know what I wish I didn't know—"

"Tell me?" Another step. Wade had his back to the television. "Wade, please—"

"Don't _do_ that!" Wade snapped.

"Do—what?"

" _That!_ " Wade threw his hands out, frustration written in every tense muscle, every prominent, outstanding vein. "Don't sound all _trustworthy_ and, and _gentle_ , like I can open up and spill every nasty secret I've ever _ever_ had—"

"You told the woman at the bar." The accusation unraveled on its own. "You said you opened up to her. Then you cut yourself off. What don't you want to tell me?" He paused; it was poised on the tip of his tongue, it was ready and frantic and begging to be asked. "Was it… something about me?"

Wade gulped. "It… it coulda been," he said, and he looked like he wanted to shoot himself.

"Then what was it?"

"Stupid stuff," Wade said harshly; too immediate to be true. "How you're always out saving the world before bedtime, and I'm always watchin' your exploits on the nine o'clock news just to see if you're alive. We never talked anymore, that's what I said; I was missin' out on quality time with Big Buddy Jesus and—" He faltered, mouth working like a fish. "—and I missed—I wanted to—this is the worst curse in the world, you know that? Stupid motherfucking— _you_ , you idiot, I missed—"

The blood froze in Nate's veins. "Wade, it's okay," he began, "I had no idea—"

"Yeah, you never do, do you?" Wade snapped. "Just too darned busy for your old pal Wade, huh?"

Nate's eyes narrowed. "That's not fair," he said.

"Isn't it, though?" Wade's laugh was cruel. "No, it's not fair when your best friend's off saving the world so much that _even with a bodyslide mishap_ you still don't see him for more than five awkward minutes at a time, he never hangs out with you anymore and yet here you are stuck with a great big cr—"

Then he went completely silent, his eyes going wide with fear. For a moment he didn't even breathe.

Then he bolted from the room.

Nate stared at the newfound hole in the atmosphere for a second, then he took off after him.

It was a small apartment, there weren't many places he could _go_ ; Nate found him quickly, holed up in the bathroom. The door, predictably, was locked.

"Wade!" Nate yelled. "Wade, open up!"

"Go _away_!"

"I don't want to have to break down the door," Nate said.

"Good! Don't!"

"Open it and I won't have to," Nate said, forcibly calm when every instinct screamed otherwise.

"I'm—I'm fine, Nate," Wade said, voice wavering. "Be out in just a minute!"

"Wade!" Nate's restraint was fast dissolving into nothing. There was something sickening about Wade's shrill, uneven voice—Nate could hear the endless spew but the words all bled together, an indistinguishable mess of babble. Rattling the knob again, he slammed his fist on the door and bellowed, "Wade, open the door right _now_ or I _will_ break it down!"

"You—agh—you do that," Wade shot back, "and you're payin' for a new one, you hear me?"

"Open this door, Wade!" Nate pounded his fist again; the door cracked, straight down the middle. "Wade! _WADE!_ "

There was another one of those impossible moments of pure, dead silence. Then there was a short, aborted scream from behind the locked door. Then a wet sound, like someone gurgling thickly through a mouthful of cotton; then nothing, absolutely nothing.

Bloodstained images pulsed through Nate's mind. Nate forced them from his head and concentrated on the door. The knob, dammit, the stupidly fortified doorknob—Nate twisted it hard, harder until with a small wave of relief he heard it break in his hand, and hung loosely out of its hole.

Tentatively, he pushed; it inched inside without hint of protest. The dread he felt was tangible, crawling down his throat and coiling around his stomach. "Wade?" Nate said, and cautiously stepped inside.

What hit him first was the stench of blood. Wade's mirror and sink were sprayed with it, dark red and syrup-thick. Then he heard a soft moan, so soft Nate almost missed it—off in the direction of the shower, where the curtain had been hastily drawn. _Thud, thud, thud;_ blood in his ears, and Nate was just grateful it was loud enough to dull the way his boots squelched on the stained bath mat.

"Wade?" Nate's throat was tight and desert-dry, and the name came out half-cracked. A moment, then a dazed burble. Nate gripped the edge of the curtain.

He was on the floor of the shower in seconds, his heart wedged in his throat. Wade was leaning back against the tiled wall, a crimson-colored patch blooming on the neck of his costume, and he was looking at Nate and smiling. His head lolled dangerously, and Nate's hand shot out to steady him, landing on his neck. It was immediately slick with warm, slippery blood.

Wade tried talking. The curse could barely force a loose gurgle out. More blood, staining Wade's torn costume, spilling down his chest and Nate's hand; hot and sticky where it soaked into the fabric.  

"Wade," Nate breathed, "fuck."

Wade lifted a shaky hand. He patted Nate on the cheek, in sympathy, and wiped something away.

Nate didn't realize until he'd cleaned up some of the mess and bandaged Wade's throat that his eyes were wet, and burned and blinded and stung. And it hurt irretrievably deep, like the twist of a broken knife, that Wade had still tried to comfort him. 

\--

It took a day for Wade's throat to heal.

Under ordinary circumstances, even with Wade's usual prolixity, it would've taken an hour. These were not, however, ordinary circumstances; the circumstances were violently extraordinary, and the sheer stress of trying to speak with a severed larynx had a noticeable effect on the healing process.

To put it very mildly.

"Nate, I'm flattered you care," Wade rasped, as the blue light of the bodyslide faded around them, "really, I am… but is chaperoning me to prom really the best thing you've got goin' on right now?"

Nate grit his teeth, and said again, "It's fine, Wade, I promise."

"You don't have, oh I don't know, world-savin' business to attend to?"

He'd had Irene clear his whole week. Not for the first time, he was seriously reconsidering the wisdom of that decision. He looked over at Wade to pointedly remind him of this—and stopped, gaze falling to the enormous swath of gauze bulging beneath the neck of Wade's costume.

"What's wrong?" Wade asked him, in a raw voice that scraped over gravel and broken glass. "Cat got your tongue?"

"No," Nate said. All the impatience drained out of him like an abscess. "Let's… go inside, then, shall we."

Wade shrugged lightly and pushed open the door.

Weasel and Hayden were in the lobby when Nate and Wade walked in. Weasel was hunched over at a computer, and looked up when they entered; Hayden pushed his heavy bulk off the small desk he'd been leaning against. 

"Gentlemen," Wade said brightly, then fixed them both with a serious stare. "I'm here to talk to you about the Avenger Initiative."

Weasel shifted, and glanced at Hayden. Hayden remained impassive, crossing his arms over his chest, and frowned.

"Really? No one?" Wade said. He sighed. "You guys _need_ to get out more."

Hayden jerked his head. "What happened to your voice?" he said.

"Oh. Uh." Self-conscious, Wade rubbed at the gauze through his costume. "Vocal fry's in right now?"

"You sound like Joan Rivers," Weasel said.

Wade scowled. "That supposed to be an insult, Weas?" he said. "Because Joan Rivers is a classy, classy lady—she's no Bea, I'll give you that, but—"

"Wade." Weasel bit back an exasperated sigh, and schooled his expression into something grave. "We need to talk to you."

"You got the test results back? 'Cause we've been meaning to talk to you about that," he said, and grabbed at Nate's hand. "We decided, we don't want to know the sex of the baby after all. Like, why does it matter, right, a miracle's a miracle, and we're gonna love our little miracle no matter what, right honey?" He laced their fingers together, squeezed, and Nate glanced away, face feeling hot.

The sigh was too much for Weasel to hold in any longer. "We got the results back."

"And?"

"And… look, can we, I dunno, go somewhere private? There's something else."

"Weasel, you're givin' me cancer flashbacks," Wade said, with a slight, nervous chuckle. He let go of Nate's hand. "Just spit it out, would you?"

"Wade," Hayden said, in that brisk, professional tone Nate was surprised Wade ever listened to. "Please?"

Wade rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine," he muttered, "Sullen Sallies, all a' you," then Weasel was ushering him into Sandi's empty office, and Hayden was clearing his throat.

Nate squared his shoulders. "You've found something?" he asked.

Even though Nate had a good six inches on him, Hayden refused to wilt, and met his gaze with one of his own—one that was strangely colored with pity. "No, Summers," he said. "We haven't."

"But you're making every effort," Nate pressed, "right?"

Hayden didn't reply. For some reason that stung worse than an answer.

"Hayden, tell me what's going on," Nate said, feeling his jaw tense. "What can't you possibly tell Wade in front of me?"

Hayden paused, then began like a prerecorded message, emotionless and rehearsed. "We at Agency X," he said, "concluded that it would be in everyone's best interests if we… suspended Wilson. Temporarily."

In Sandi's office, Nate could hear Wade chattering away—low-pitched and erratic, Weasel speaking quietly over him. 

"Suspended him," Nate echoed. Hayden nodded once, chin pressed to his massive chest. "In other words, you're giving up."

"It was unlikely we'd ever find the woman in the first place." Hayden exhaled, deeply, and gave Nate a hard, pointed stare, one Nate returned with equal fervor. "If Wilson literally can't shut up on a job," he said, "then professionally, he's a liability, and it'd be suicide to send him out. We're barely staffed as is, and _heavily_ underfunded, so I do hope you'll understand if I'd rather lay off a technically valuable employee for the time being until his life sorts itself out, if it ever comes to that."

There was a cold, tense moment where Nate didn't speak at all. Then he said, deliberately slow, "You're laying Wade off… so you don't have to _pay_ him?"

Hayden's eyes flashed. "I'm suspending him," he said sharply, "so he doesn't go out there, screw up on a job, and get himself _killed_." He glared. "Seems like you're doing a fine enough job as is."

In the interval between seconds Hayden was against the wall with Nate's hand around his throat. The plaster cracked like lightning when his bulk slammed into it. Weasel and Wade came running out; Weasel squeaked and Wade murmured something that was half-stunned and half-amused. Then the door to the lobby slid open, and a gun's safety was drawn back; and Inez was saying calmly, "Put 'im down, Summers; I hate makin' a mess."

It all happened at once.

Nate blinked and looked around, the red haze clearing from view. Weasel had shielded himself behind Wade, who was watching Nate warily, expression shuttered. Sandi and Inez stood by the main door; Sandi's face was tense and Inez's was blank, gun trained on Nate, her hand perfectly steady.

And no one in the room was breathing very much.

In the distance, he was aware of Wade saying something to Inez, and then he was at Nate's side, tugging firmly on his arm. "Look, I know it'd be a lotta fun to kill my ex-boss to death," he said, "but I was kinda plannin' on listin' him as a reference on my CV. So, if you don't mind…?"

It took a moment, but Nate relaxed his fist, mechanically releasing fingers until Hayden slid down the wall. The room only breathed a collective sigh of relief when Nate took two generous steps backwards and Hayden held up a hand in reassurance.

"Thank you," Wade told him, and cleared his abused throat. "So, I'm gonna go…"

"What?" Nate turned to stare in confusion at Wade. "What do you mean, 'go'?"

Wade looked at him like he'd grown another head. "I was let go?" he said. "Terminated? Dismissed? Am now officially unemployed? You just tried to kill Hayden because—actually, I have no idea why you tried to kill Hayden, but whatever. Probably had it comin'." Wade shrugged. "I was gonna say goodbye to everyone formally but I think you killed the mood."

"You can't be serious." Now it was Nate's turn to give Wade a strange look. "You're giving up too?"

"—but you _do_ pretty much bully people into being nice to me, so maybe that was—what? Oh. Yeah, I guess," Wade rasped, and rubbed the back of his neck, then the front. "I dunno, I really just wanna go home now. If that's okay with you."

"I—" Wade wasn't paying attention to him. He'd gone over to Sandi and Inez, speaking so quietly Nate couldn’t hear. Then Weasel, then finally Hayden, who listened to Wade intently before nodding, and accepting a firm handshake.

It all felt oddly final.

Wade straightened up. "I can probably get Bob out of storage and have him drop by and box up my stuff," he said, looking around the room without really looking at anything. "That okay, Hayden?"

Hayden nodded.

"Great. Well I'm off. Call me, beep me, if you wanna reach me," he said, and gave Agency X a listless salute. "You know where I'll be."

"Wade," Nate started, and Wade opened the door and disappeared.

He hadn't said goodbye to him.

The pointed lack of acknowledgement... it hurt, Nate thought, staring at the space in the lobby where Wade had just stood grinning hopelessly at them. He'd gone around saying goodbye to Hayden, and Weasel, and Inez and Sandi but _not him_ —and after all they'd been through, after all Nate had _been_ there for, Nate thought he maybe deserved some notice.

For a moment he almost felt angry. Little hints of it pushed up like molten lava through the cracks, hot and hissing, and Nate let it happen, feeling his fists tighten; feeling his blood burn.

And he remembered Wade's voice, hoarse and raw in the quiet of his own mind. Remembered the set of Wade's shoulders, the light in his eyes blinking and burning out; his fists relaxed, and the anger ebbed to a sort of hollow, dull ache.

Maybe Wade wanted to stop fighting, but that had never been Nate's style, and he'd fought a lot harder for less. His jaw set, and grim lines of determination creased his forehead, and without a word he headed swiftly for the exit. This was Wade, after all, and when it came to Wade, Nate always chose the same way.

Some things were too important not to.

No one stopped him from leaving. They weren't dumb enough to try.

\--

He pounded hard on the door again. "Wade? Come on, Wade, _please_ open up?" A beat. "I know you're in there. You're singing. I can hear you."

After ten more seconds of pointed disregard, Nate tried the knob. To his surprise, it was unlocked, and the door swung open easily.

The apartment was in a peculiar state of disarray. Disarray itself wasn't unusual, but a few battered, open suitcases were, and Nate's charged attitude dropped a few notches. "Wade?"

Wade walked in singing to himself, the words scratched-up as a cat post. Nate was only worth a passing glance; Wade didn't even blink as he strolled past him, busily packing things into one of the emptier suitcases.

After a moment, Nate said, "Are you going somewhere?"

Wade hummed. Still singing.

"I hear Switzerland's lovely this time of year," Nate said. "I was thinking of going myself."

"Not going to Switzerland," Wade said, surveying the living room with a critical eye.

"Oh." Nate's face fell. "May I ask where you're—"

"San Francisco," Wade said promptly, plucking a miniature sword-polish kit from the coffee table. "Thought I'd say goodbye to Al, at least. You know, I sometimes miss the old bag? Why she disappeared after issue #33 I have no idea, I tried bringing it up—"

The words rang in Nate's head like an alarm. "Say goodbye?"

"Yup. So long, farewell. _I can go my own waaay… I can call it ano-oother lonely daa-aay…_ "

He went back to singing, packing odds and ends into his suitcases like a squirrel with a deadline. There was something about the _casuality_ of things that set Nate on edge; his heart was starting to pound, a frantic drumbeat behind his ribs.

"And… will you be leaving us permanently?" Nate asked. Wade didn't answer him immediately, too busy trying to shove seven seasons' worth of _The Golden Girls_ into an overstuffed suitcase. Nate walked over, placed his hand on top of the suitcase, and looked into Wade's carefully-blank eyes. He tried smiling. "Wade?"

Wade shrugged. "Don't know yet," he said, "depends," and Nate slammed the suitcase closed. That got Wade's attention. He drew his gaze up, and the tired words continued to wind out of him like a broken record—"goddammit, Nate, you better hope you didn't break my DVDs—"

"Wade." Nate's grin was cracked and strained. "What's going on?"

"What's it look like?" and to himself, "come on, Nate, know you're smarter than that—not smart enough to know _not to touch my stuff_ but I'm pretty sure your intelligence stat's pretty far up there, pitch-perfect like the rest of you, I'd bet—"

"It looks like you're leaving."

"Well give the man a Kewpie doll," Wade deadpanned, and coughed into his fist. "Fuck. Nate, be a peach—bottle of whiskey on the counter. Just the bottle will do, thanks, it's almost empty anyway—and hey, can we stop with the looming and the staring and the crazy murder eyes or is that all you came here to do? 'Cause, Nate—flattering? but also _kinda_ creepy, so if you don't mind—"

"I'm not going to let you."

The stream changed. "Wait, he's _serious_ , he thinks—hang on, he's still trying? Nate? You're still—"

"Hear me out," Nate said, and Wade scowled; crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow. "Your situation… it looks pretty grim, I _know_ , and I don't blame you for wanting to just give up. But listen—we haven't tried every option yet. We can still put out a call to Doctor Strange, or the Scarlet Witch, and—Wade?" Nate grinned, uneasy. "You seem unimpressed."

Wade was still staring at him; carefully, completely unamused.

"It sounds like a long shot, I know," Nate said, "but it's not like we've lost all hope—"

"Haven't we?"

Baffled, Nate gaped at him. "Of course not," he said automatically. "Don't you want to try?"

Everything about Wade, from the crossed arms to the raised eyebrow to the words tumbling from his mouth ("ye gods above, he actually believes in himself—I can't just tell him no, it'd be like kicking a puppy"), made his answer all too apparent.  

He said, "What do you think," in flat dead tones, with his eyes low and full of pity.  

"But why _not_?"

"Nate, let it go," Wade said gently. "Look, honestly? It's been a hell of a ride, with you and Agency X and everything—some of the best moments of my life, if you wanna get all maudlin. But I think it's time to call it quits, you get me?"

"I must not," Nate said. His tone was unmistakably bitter. "Why don't you explain."

Wade's lips quirked. "Maybe I don't wanna be dragged from place to place spendin' my life lookin' for a solution that don't even merit a guarantee," he said. "Hayden already laid me off, an' if that's not the opposite of a vote of confidence then I don't know what is. No, look, it's—forget it, my time's up. I mean, not yet, but maybe if I'm lucky."

There was something chilling in Wade's tone, something that made the hairs on Nate's arm stand up and shivers roll down his spine. It was a horrible note of hopefulness that didn't belong. "What do you mean," he said carefully, "lucky?"

Wade shrugged, checked his fingernails. "I doubt it's even possible," he said.

"Wade…"

"I'm not sure exactly where continuity stands on this—I was technically cursed in I _think_ issue sixty-something of my classic run, but then our book's kinda fuzzy on whether I can be killed or not—I should probably clear that up, maybe on the flight over—"

"Wade, enough!" Nate said sharply. His shoulders tightened, stiff like two blocks of petrified wood. "What is going on?"

Wade stared hopelessly at him, like Nate was a brat throwing a tantrum and Wade was an exasperated parent. There was something he _wasn't_ saying there, despite the curse, and no matter how hard Nate strained to hear, the true meaning was lost like a whisper in a hurricane.

"I'm going to go to San Francisco," Wade said. "Say goodbye to Al. Maybe Terry, if I can. I'd like to. I'll pawn my stuff and send them a couple big checks. And after that… I mean, I've got nothin' left." His face didn't fall; it crashed and broke into pieces. "I'm pretty sure you can guess the next line."

Nate's expression must've said enough for him, because Wade shook his head and tried a more consoling tack. "It's not even guaranteed to work," he said gently, offering Nate a sad, twisted smile. "You know me; I take a hit like a punching bag. But I don't wanna spend the rest of my life babblin' about the first thing that comes to mind."

"Don't you do that already?" Nate said, a little meanly, but given the circumstances… and anyway, it made Wade chuckle.

"You'd be surprised," he said, "how good it feels to shut up every once in a while."

"So come _with_ me," Nate insisted, grabbing Wade's wrist.

Wade's eyes narrowed to sharp slits. "Let go of me, Nate."

"Not gonna happen, Wade," Nate returned, shaking his head.

"Aww, are you getting all sentimental on me? Sweetie, I'm touched. Really."

Nate frowned. But not because the remark had stung. If anything, it made something very, very clear.

Wade's mouth said one thing, but his eyes telegraphed something else, some unspoken meaning that diverged from the road and took a path that ran closer to Wade's heart. The split was impossible to mistake. Wade told him to let go, but his wrist had gone limp in Nate's hand; Wade told him to leave, but his eyes had the bleak, haunted look of someone who didn't want to be left alone. Everything Wade said was so far from the truth—and had to be, or he risked actually saying it.

Risked making it real.  

The shock hit him like a bolt from the blue.  

Wade had launched into a rant about how bullheaded Nate could be sometimes, how it had to be a Summers thing, so stupid and determined and cloyingly optimistic. He spat out a comment calling Nate lame and pathetic, and how he was wasting everyone's time. He said Nate was a lot of things, and if he had the time he would've listed them all in alphabetical order.

And for the first time since four o'clock yesterday afternoon, Nate took a deep breath… and listened.

And maybe it worked, because Wade never pulled away when Nate grasped his wrist; and he never walked away, even when Nate moved closer. And he never stopped staring at Nate—not when Nate put his other hand against Wade's jaw, not when Nate closed his eyes.

Not when Nate kissed him as hard as he possibly could.

He didn't pull away, waited until the shock leveled off and Wade could tentatively kiss him back; until Wade closed his eyes, and sighed quietly into Nate's mouth. Nate's heartbeat started to even out, and his viselike grip on Wade's wrist loosened—and he kissed Wade again, lips moving gently, tilting his head.

When he broke away, Wade's eyes were still closed, like he was processing a new piece of detailed information, all attention focused to a fine point. Nate's mouth felt hot and bruised. "If," he murmured, his forehead pressed against Wade's, "you think, I am going to let you do something as _stupid_ as—"

Wade shook his head quickly, lips twitching. And Nate realized what Wade had picked up on.

"You're not speaking," he said, fear seizing hold of his words, "Wade, are you—"

Wade shook his head again, and held a finger up. He extracted himself from Nate's personal space, eyes opening, widening. Blinking, like he half-expected to wake up.

Nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

Ten seconds passed. Then ten more. And then a minute, and Wade's shoulders sagged with the sudden onslaught of much-needed relief.

A broad smile blossomed on Nate's face. "Wade, it's broken!" he exclaimed. "The curse, it's—"

"Get out."

Nate's smile cracked like a faultline. "'Get out?'" he said. "Wade, what do you mean, 'get out'? We just—"

" _Go_ ," Wade croaked, rubbing his throat. His eyes were doing their best to burn a hole in the threadbare carpet. "Please," he added, and held his arms loosely around his stomach—a defensive gesture, Nate recognized, feeling torn.

This didn't feel like victory at all; whatever reaction Nate had anticipated, this wasn't it. The silence worked like a shield, and Wade was purposely expressionless—erased clean, blank as a piece of paper.

The little piece of understanding Nate had finally grasped disintegrated.

Without another word, Nate left. Ten seconds later he regretted it, but the door was locked when he went back to try it all again.

\--

Nate broke the news to Agency X later that night. It was surprising how unsurprised they seemed; details of exactly _how_ they'd broken the curse hadn't done more than raise a few curious eyebrows.

They called Wade to confirm the story. He answered on the eighth ring, and was understandably laconic with his answers. Yes, he kissed me. Yes, the curse is broken. Yes, I'm all right. Peachy-keen, jellybean.

He hung up first, and Nate left shortly after that, fully expecting Wade to call _him_ —either to berate him for breaking the news alone or ask him where the hell his head was. Definitely not to thank him, though Nate would've accepted it.

Wade never called. The rest of the week passed without so much as a text message. It was Saturday morning when Nate's infinite patience reached a limit.

He called Sandi.

"He's not in," Sandi said over the phone.  

"Do you know where he might be? I've tried calling him, but he won't answer the phone—"

"Hayden sent him on a job," she said.

"Oh." Nate deflated a bit. Wade probably wouldn't be… receptive, if he sought him out while he was working—

"How'd you know to kiss him?" Sandi said, scattering his thoughts like a stone tossed in water. "Er. Sorry," she added, sounding more curious than apologetic, "it's just kind of… interesting."

That was one word for it. "I don't know," Nate said flatly. "I didn't know. It just… seemed like the right thing to do at the time." It sounded worse spoken out loud, dumb and blundering and stupid. Stupid was a word for it too. "But I haven't seen him in a week, and I'd like to apologize, formally, for… overstepping my boundaries."

"I don't think you'll be doing much apologizing," Sandi said.

"Come again?" Nate asked, but either Sandi didn't hear him or she chose not to answer, and the cryptic comment went unexplained. Sounds of paper files ruffling reached Nate's ears, and then Sandi was clearing her throat.

"He's working in Central Park today," she said. "Most likely by Conservatory Water."

"Uh… thank you," Nate said in surprise. "You're sure I can see him?"

"You're pretty good at making decisions, Nate," Sandi said, and Nate got the distinct feeling that if she were physically here, her eyes would be scrutinizing every last inch of him; sizing him up and judging him. But just maybe approving. "I'll leave it up to you."

She hung up after that, and Nate mulled it over. _Not doing much apologizing?_ he wondered. Sandi's tone made it seem like Nate's grasp of the situation wasn't as solid as he thought. But she hadn't elaborated, so there was really only one way to find out.

It was a nice day in April. Nate went in his civilian clothes.

It took over twenty minutes to actually find Wade; he was in jeans, a not-at-all-conspicuous Deadpool shirt, and a faded baseball cap, but he was also completely silent, and Nate realized he'd walked by three times before even noticing.

Wade found it mildly amusing. "You know, I _was_ gonna save you the time and shout hey," he said, scooting over on the park bench. "Or just trip you. Either way."

"Very thoughtful of you," Nate said with a smile. He sat down. "You sound much better."

Wade shrugged.

He didn't _seem_ hurt.

"Does your—how are you—um—" Wade's eyebrows rose higher, and his lips quirked at the edges. "I mean—how have you—"

Wade nodded out at the water. A fleet of model boats glided over the sparkling surface. Nate stared out at them, puzzled, and said, "Boats?"

"Hayden," Wade explained, "after taking me back on incredibly short notice, was also nice enough to give me a job where I didn't have to do much talking. Any talking, really. I'm watching that guy." He pointed.

That Guy was a sixty-two year old gentleman with a neatly-trimmed mustache, suspenders, and translucent hands webbed with blue veins. He was showing two young children what looked to be a handcrafted model boat, and he didn't at all align with what Nate assumed was Wade's usual clientele.

"Drug kingpin," Wade said, answering Nate's unasked question. "Pharmaceuticals, I think. I didn't ask. I get to sit on my ass and make sure he doesn't get assassinated while he spends the day with his grandkids. Easy peasy." Wade leaned back, neck curving over the back of the bench, his eyes sliding half-shut.

"I'm… glad you got your job back," Nate said, after a moment.

"Yeah, well." Wade shrugged again, shoulders rolling languidly, all one fluid motion. "I think Hayden was more worried about what you would do if he didn't take me back. Thanks, by the way. I owe ya one." And he popped off a lazy salute.

Nate nodded, slow and ponderous. His hands sat unsure like little birds in his lap, and he stared at them while the sun pressed its warmth into the back of his neck.

"Lemme guess," Wade drawled. He was back to his usual, gasoline-soaked rasp, not the mixed-up death the curse had forced on him. "You don't do this sorta thing very often."

"What thing?"

"Apologize." Wade steadily arched an eyebrow. "That is what you're here for, right? To say you're sorry for kissing me, and it'll never happen again?"

"I… wanted to see how you were," Nate said, lamely.

Wade swept a hand at himself. "Back in black," he said. "Well, red-and-black, technically—usually, I mean, today's more black-and-blue, which is kind of ironic if you consider the whole healing factor business, but you'd probably have to use the Alanis Morissette definition of irony—"

"Wade."

Wade's grin was cheeky. "Sorry," he said. "Old habits die hard."

"I had noticed."

"Yeah. Well." Wade sat up, his spine cracking pleasantly, then reached behind him to rub at a kink in his neck. "If you're here to apologize, fine; I forgive you. Now go away. I'm busy."

Nate's eyebrow rose.

"I don't know, he could be assassinated _at any minute_ ," Wade insisted. "Gotta keep an eye on him. They may look rickety, but I tell ya, Nate, old people get speedy if you poke 'em just right."

"That's the second time you've tried pushing me away," Nate said. His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Uh, 'cause I'm _working_? And working usually entails—"

"That's." Nate hesitated. "All right, I suppose it _is_ a valid excuse, even if I do think it's a fairly flimsy one." Wade grinned. "Fine, I'll go if you want. But first. I did come here to tell you something."

"Which is?"

Nate smiled to himself. "They found your mystery woman. Your Milla Jovovich, I believe."

Sitting a foot away, Nate felt Wade's body tense through the wooden slats of the bench. "Oh," Wade said. "That's—nice. Good ol' NYPD blue."

"The police had nothing to do with it," Nate said. "She just tried to hex the wrong person."

"Who?"

Nate's lips quirked. "Doctor Strange."

Wade barked out a laugh. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Nate said. "They also found out who—or rather, what—she really is."

The silence almost tingled. "Oh," Wade said, after a long moment. "What is she?"

"In layman's terms, a wish-giver," Nate said. "I'm afraid I don't know what kind, but my source is reliable. Her MO strikingly resembled your ordeal—beautiful woman, alone at a bar, listening to sob stories and granting wishes." He grinned. "It wasn't a curse; it was a wish. And from what I heard, you got off fairly easy."

Wade bristled. "I didn't tell her a sob story."

"But you did wish for something," Nate said. He turned his head to look at Wade, voice lowering softly. "What did you say to her?"

Wade's blank eyes flickered. And he asked, sounding distant, "Why'd you kiss me, Nate?"

Nate blinked. Fair question, but not what he'd expected. "Four days ago."

"No, the _other_ time we had a heated emotional scene and you laid one on me. _Yes_ ," Wade said, long-suffering, "Nate. Four days ago."

"Because—"

"You couldn't a' known it woulda broke the spell, no one could—almost think it surprised you more 'n it surprised me, and boy, was it ever a surprise, lemme tell you, Luke an' Laura gettin' married had _nothin'_ on that— "

"I… don't know," Nate said, and Wade brought his palm to his forehead. "I just… had to."

"Wait, okay—you _had_ to lay a big wet one on your sort-of best friend's luscious lips to get him to shut up," Wade said. "Now I get it! Good golly, Miss Molly, you're a regular Nancy Drew."

"If I had known you would've had such a problem with it, I might have stopped to reconsider," Nate said brusquely.

Wade drew in on himself and said, in a dark mumble that Nate almost missed, "That's _not_ what I had the problem with."

"Then _what_ , Wade, tell me, what on Earth did you—" He stopped. "You didn't have a problem with it? You mean the kiss."

Wade froze for a moment, clearly hesitant to answer. But then he managed a small, reluctant nod, and looked away from Nate.

"Then… if it wasn't the kiss you had a problem with…"

Wade shook his head. "You can't go runnin' around curin' your best friend of Chatty Cathy Syndrome with big, dramatic kisses like that," he said. "Sends a mixed message."

"To… you?"

"You, me, Dupree. The folks at home. Take your pick," Wade said.

"What kind of a mixed…" Nate said, and trailed off, because he didn't need to say it. He listened, and that was enough. "Oh," he said softly, and his eyes widened.

"Yeah, oh," Wade echoed, crossing his arms. "See, I knew you had brains under the brawn."

Upon reflection, it did make some sense. And then there were parts that made no sense at all. "You almost killed yourself so I wouldn't discern your true feelings for me," Nate said.

"No," Wade said, "I _almost_ killed myself—and might I remind you totally did _not_ —so you wouldn't 'discern my true feelings for you' and then go, 'Oh, Wade, it's _okay_ , I'm from the _future_ , everybody gets inappropriate boners for their BFFs sometimes, we just accept it and move on. No hard feelings, k?'" He leaned back into the bench, shaking his head. "Nate. Man. You don't know what that's _like_."

"What what's like?"

Wade wasn't looking at him, or anything in particular. "Like," he said slowly, his words measured and thoughtful, "having you know, and then having to live with it right within your reach but never in your grasp. It'd be easier if you were a complete asshole, then I could be like, oh right, Nate's a douchebag, let's move on an' get over it. But if you're gonna be okay with things and stick around for more, then it's like I get to feel rejected _every damn day._ I mean, Nate, I know I'm not the poster boy for mental health, but you couldn't pay me to wish for _that_."

"Then what did you wish for?"

Wade stared at him. "Honestly?" he said. "I just wanted to talk to you more." He shrugged, then, a careless slump of his shoulders. "How she figured out the rest of it, I dunno. Women, right."

Nonplussed, Nate sat there and blinked for a moment. "So," he began, "you didn't wish for me to kiss you?"

That got Nate a severely sharp glare. "No," Wade said curtly. "I didn't."

"Really."

Wade scowled. "Lemme answer that with a question: have you ever thought of yer ol' pal Deadpool in a fun sexytime-kinda way before?"

"I—"

"Ever wondered if he likes it hot an' rough, on his knees in a dirty back alley, or slow and tender on satin sheets, with candles and sandalwood and a soundtrack by Marvin Gaye?"

"Wade—"

"How many times," Wade snapped, "have you thought about throwin' caution to the wind and kissing the living daylights out of your best friend?"

"Wade, please—"

"Let me tell you," he said, "if I started countin' on my hands, I could keep cutting off fingers and growin' 'em back and I _still_ wouldn't be able to do it."

" _Wade_ ," Nate said irritably, and Wade glowered, and Nate sighed deeply through his nose. "No," he said. "I haven't."

"There you go," Wade grouched, "that's why," and he slumped back heavily on the bench.

He had a point. Nate had never given it much thought.

But as far as thoughts went, it explained a few things—a lot of few things. And it wasn't as distasteful as Wade made it sound. Wade was brash, sure, and violent, and certifiably insane.

He was also funny, and loyal, and genuinely kind, if he rarely let it show. He could fight tirelessly for what he thought was right, and he always _tried_ , which was more than most could say. But above all that, he was the best friend Nate had ever had. Maybe not the best man, but Nate couldn't exactly judge. Beyond doubt, Wade cared about him, a notion that burrowed deep and housed itself in Nate's bones. And Nate didn't have to search too much to see that the feeling was mutual, a seamless part of his identity; visceral as blood and equally vital. The past week had more than brought that to light—not that Nate didn't appreciate it.

It wasn't a question of why. It was more a question of why not. And nothing Nate thought of was an answer.

He sat on the bench and thought about it, and Wade fumed at the sailboats for a while.

Eventually Nate chanced looking at Wade, and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Satin sheets?"

Wade grunted. "When you get skin cancer," he said, "trust me, you'll understand."

Nate looked away, watching the sailboats with Wade. "You're right," he said. "I haven't thought about it before."

Wade stiffened a little at his side. "Yeah?" he said, forcing his tone to sound casual and unaffected. "And?"

"And," Nate said. "Now I have."

If he bolted, Nate had no problem running after him. But Wade stayed where he was, though Nate wasn't sure what emotion rooted him to the bench—it was either bravery or fear. Or maybe it was both.

"Oh," Wade said, in tones that didn't hide worry as well as he thought. "That's cool, I guess."

" _I_ kissed _you_ ," Nate reminded him.

"Uh huh."

"And, if you don't mind," Nate said, "I'd like to try it again."

Wade stared at him in disbelief. "You're shittin' me," he said.

"Nope," Nate said, "not in the least," and leaned in gently and kissed him. His hand slid up to Wade's neck, thumb stroking the thick ridge of a mending scar, and he closed his eyes when he felt Wade kiss him back. Wade's lips were warm and dry, and he kissed really slowly, and he kept his eyes shut after Nate pulled away.

"I don't mind thinking about it," Nate told him.

Wade's eyes snapped half-open; flickered with suspicion.

"And I don't blame you if you— _mmph!_ " Nate was cut off by Wade's mouth on his. His lips were hard and direct and _wanting_ , and his hand clutched Nate's shoulder in a ferocious death-grip.

Wade broke away panting. "Still don't mind?" he said. His eyes were enormous, and illuminated with strange new light.

Nate nodded, transfixed. Rapt.

"Seriously," Wade said. "After all the crazy and killer-for-hire and the tendency to never shut up, with or without outside help."

"I've seen worse," Nate said. "I've seen you _be_ worse."

"And?"

"And," he said. "I can live with it."

Wade gave him a narrow-eyed stare. "No, you can't," he said shrewdly. "You'll try to fix it. You always do. You'll try to fix _me_."

Nate's grin was wicked, a sharp curve of lips up one side. "Worked before, didn't it?" he said.

"Asshole. _Asshole_. Asshole asshole asshole—"

"I love you too."

Wade's lips twisted. "I don't believe you," he said. "Just so you know."

"I know."

"If you're playing a game—"

"No games, Wade," Nate promised, looking him in the eye. Wade's expression was still skeptical. "No jokes either."

"I don't believe you," Wade repeated. "That you'd even consider wantin' this. I've seen you talk pretty before."

"That's okay," Nate said. "I can prove it otherwise."

"How?"

Nate smiled a crooked little smile.

Clouds scudded over the sun, and the sunlight in Central Park faded away. Wade's client shaded his eyes and examined the sky, bushy gray brows knitting together. Nate slid over on the bench and slipped his hand just under Wade's.

Wade didn't take it, and stared at it with deep mistrust. But that was all right, that was all all right. Nate could wait. Wouldn't want to rush it himself, either—uncharted territory, it was worth going slow. You didn't want to miss anything.

"Guess I'll just have to show you instead," Nate said.

"Show me."

"Yes," Nate said, and his smile widened. "Would you believe me if I said anything else?"

"Probably not." Wade scowled. "For the record? I think you're _clinically insane_."

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it?" Wade rolled his eyes, and Nate bit his lower lip. "I know you don't have faith in me, and I understand, you must distrust me a little for seeming all too accepting, but I promise—"

"Nate," Wade said, "shut up," and he gave Nate's hand a little squeeze. And what he really said was, _Nate, shut up,_ and a lot more that he couldn't put into words. A lot that Nate couldn't hope to translate.

Words were one thing, but they said much less than Wade loosely taking hold of Nate's hand, fingers threading soft through his.

They watched Wade's client sail a toy boat with his grandchildren, in comfortable, companionable silence. They had, after all, nothing else left to say.

\--

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End file.
